Author Archives: marcogibbo

Taking Steps

—for gary lundy aware cocky youth knows no hand rails umbrellas no spare anythings it collects itself throws down shots and dreams gobbles rain or sun- shine so it grows wants and deals out the naked hour youth dances to … Continue reading

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Ciara

Mist, the marine layer rolls along the ridge behind Ventura, the slope green from fires last fall. A bi-plane circles overhead, momentarily drowning out the construction clatter and whine of table saws and saws-alls, air compressors, a chainsaw, generators, planers, … Continue reading

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The Pagan Ghost

Ed Lahey speaks, crawls out today from my berserkly pit of copper verse despair, spits-up the green blood of my cabbage patch mind. He strides down Galena, eyes squinting through dirt, smells a gaggle of gold geese, horny as Old … Continue reading

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LATE SNOW

You won’t mow The grass today This morning 8 inches of heavy Wet snow – Branches drooping Several broken The roses frozen Your neighbor weeps Her garden buried Silent & white You wonder What happened To the birds – The … Continue reading

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Laundry Sutra

sheets bulky warm no extra rinse Luna purrs in her bed not enough whatever she needs to stand and walk over to me have me scratch her head Psychedelic Pill fills my ears and water runs in the house pipes … Continue reading

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THE MOUNTAIN

We are the walking wounded, blow upon blow, day upon day, we cringe, gird, panic, and endure. The grass is greener, of course, until you crest the ridge and tromp through knapweed down to the dry creek bed. For every … Continue reading

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OLD BIRDS

The irascible old radical cussing on the toilet in the rest home wasn’t John Muir, Bob Marshall, or Robinson Jeffers, but he lived in the wilderness of his mind, a Buddhist warrior who called Ginsberg a cock-sucking Commie-Kike. He knew … Continue reading

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SINK HOLES

the grass is greener and the days are longer the drum beats like a stuttering drunk on the stairs in the brain of the crane operator what should he do in the waning hours of summer? fire up the barbie … Continue reading

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A Letter to My Unborn Grandchildren

Ignoring the elephant is what we’re good at— comfortable folks strolling through routine. Yes, I’m guilty of privilege, born white with a pair of balls, but I have tried to do my part pointing out what reeks of ignorance and … Continue reading

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Playing Favorites

what was your mother’s favorite flower? i don’t recall a stand-out flower. about the only thing she ever grew were tulips, a few limp pansies, and the irises that grew on their own—you couldn’t get rid of them— but she … Continue reading

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